Green
by aliis
Summary: What do hustlers do when they get hustled?


There was the faintest movement between one patch of streetlit pavement and the next, then nothing for about forty seconds. Another blur - and stillness. After just a few minutes, a gloved hand reached from the shadows to the door, a lock pick extruding from the fingers. Soon the mechanism clicked, the handle was turned, and the door closed noiselessly in the night.

**********

"Mick!" bawled Ash from the lounge. Mickey Stone strolled in, towelling off his hair.

"What's up?" he asked, puzzled at the uncharacteristic shout.

"Did you leave this safe open last night after we put the papers away? Cos if you did, they're sure as hell not here now," came the splenetic response.

Mickey stared at the safe, realising for the first time that it was not only wide open, but devoid of all content. He bent down and peered inside, taking care not to touch it or its surrounds. His eyes narrowed and his lips curled in concentration.

"I'll take that as a no, then, shall I?" Ash paced across the room to the large window that looked out over the street. "And that's Albert back with the goods," he added, throwing up his hands in despair.

"Let's just think for a moment." Mickey's towel was thrown aside and he made calming motions with his hands. "I was the last person to use it." He shut his eyes, mentally retracing his steps. "I placed the documents on the bottom of the safe, and put the cash box on top of them. I closed the door over and span the tumblers, then pulled on the handle to make doubly sure it had locked. Then I replaced the painting over it. That was it." His eyes opened again and he looked directly at Ash.

"Hey, I didn't go near it!" Ash's cheeks blew out in frustration and he put his hands behind his head, a sure sign that he was trying to come up with a solution to the problem. Albert entered the house and called out, "Anybody home? I managed to get it."

"In here," Mickey answered. The elderly man joined them, and straight away realised something was amiss.

"Problem?" he asked, hoping that there wasn't.

Mickey waved his hand at the vacant safe. "Ash found it like that a few minutes ago. I swear I put the stuff in it and locked it last night." He was beginning to get worried now, Albert could tell by the register of his voice.

"I think we should sit down and go over what we know," suggested Albert, taking his place on a sofa. Mickey complied and, reluctantly, Ash followed suit. Albert continued, "One: you made sure the paperwork was locked up in the safe. Two: it's now open and the papers are nowhere to be found…I take it," he added as an afterthought, "that you've searched the house for them?"

There was a pregnant pause as the other two exchanged sheepish glances. Mickey shook his head.

"Then that's your next step. If, however, a third party has helped themselves, it's not likely the documents are still here. But we're familiar with the tactic of 'non-theft' ourselves, so best check the premises anyway. Ash, you take the bedrooms. I'll look in here. Mickey, kitchen and bathroom. Go!" He clapped his hands and the others were off like startled whippets.

**********

A dispirited trio sat around the dining table after their fruitless search of the property. "Well, that brings us to Three: who else was here? Obviously, no-one with _our_ permission," Albert said in answer to his own question. "So we need to find out who took the papers, and why they were so keen to have them." He hesitated, for he knew the next question would not be a popular one. "Did either of you mention this scam to anyone else, grifter or not?"

"Albert!" Ash was genuinely shocked. "As if!"

The old man raised his hands and said, "OK, OK, but I had to ask."

They both looked at Mickey, who was silent, his eyes giving away the inner search. At last, slowly, he said, "No-one. Not even Eddie."

"Then we're looking at either an opportunist thief – unlikely, given that nothing else was taken…" Albert indicated the valuable artworks on the walls of their Belgravia townhouse, "…or, someone who found out what we were planning, and decided they wanted what we had."

"Harris," stated Ash, grim-faced.

Mickey and Albert stared, not understanding at first, until Mickey remembered the surname of the forger they had used.

"Of course! He must be the only person outside this room who knew the documents even existed." His face fell. "But this is Zav we're talking about here; you've never had any trouble with him in the past, have you?"

Ash stood up abruptly and shrugged on his suit jacket. "Well, I don't know about you, but I'm off to find out. Anyone coming with me?"

"I will," said Mickey, without hesitation. "Albert, will you stay here and make a couple of phone calls?"

"Of course. You two go on, see what you can come up with."

***********

Ash rang the bell beside the polished chrome nameplate that read, "Xavier M. Harris, Solicitor". A voice rapped out, "Yes?" to which Ash replied, "Ash Morgan for Mr. Harris." There was a short silence followed by an electronic burr, and the door clicked ajar. Mickey and Ash climbed the stairs and found themselves in a small, neutral-toned reception area. Within a few minutes, a pretty brunette emerged from behind one of the doors, smiled shyly at the two men, and went downstairs. When Mickey and Ash could tear themselves away from watching her go, a Savile Row-dressed man of middle age was standing in the doorway, grinning. "You like?" he asked, arching an eyebrow in a somewhat pimpish manner.

"Very funny, Zav," said Ash, extending his hand for the lawyer to shake. Mickey smiled and did the same.

"Mr. Stone?" enquired Harris. "Nice to meet you. Mr. Morgan has told me a great deal of your exploits."

"Has he now?" Mickey looked askance at his fixer, who appeared a little abashed at this allegation. "Only good things, I hope."

"Of course! Now, what can I do for you today? Come in, take the weight off." He ushered them into his elegantly-furnished office and they sat on couches around an ebony coffee table.

"Your most recent work for us," began Ash.

"Nothing wrong with it, I hope?" interrupted Harris anxiously.

"The paperwork was perfect, Zav. So perfect, in fact, that somebody else thought they ought to have it. We got up this morning to find the safe had been blagged," Ash explained.

Harris sat back in astonishment. "You're kidding." When nobody laughed, he said, "Seriously? Someone turned you over and took my work?" The man looked utterly perplexed. "But why? What use was it to anyone but you?"

"That's what we'd like to know," answered Mickey. "I hate to have to ask you this, but is there anybody who might have come into your office and seen what you were doing for us? Maybe…"

"Absolutely not." Harris cut him off with an adamant sweep of the hand. "I work solo."

Mickey looked in the direction that the departing woman had taken, then turned quizzically to face Harris again.

"A client," came the curt answer. "Nothing to do with your documentation, I guarantee it."

"Listen, Zav, no offence intended, we just needed to cover all the angles." Ash sat forward and spoke intently across the table. "We've got complete faith in you. But obviously there's somebody out there who got wind of what we'd cooked up and decided they'd like a piece of it."

"I understand your concern, but _you_ need to understand that I do _not_ run some two-bit, backstreet operation…"

"Yes, yes, we get it, you're an artist," sighed Mickey impatiently. Ash cringed at what he knew would come next. Harris got to his feet and pointed at the door. "Out. And next time you need any papers drawn up at short notice, _don't_ come to me, all right?" Mickey sat for some moments, stunned, while Ash was halfway down the stairs. He waited morosely on the street, staring into a shop window. Soon he sensed Mickey at his side.

"That didn't really go as well as I'd hoped," Ash said, expressionless, still intent on the contents of the estate agent's display.

"Oh, come on, the guy's got tickets on himself! I'd bet a month…no, a _year's_ worth of grifting that whoever took those papers is connected with Harris, whether he knows it or not."

"Yeah, but proving it is gonna be tough. We should look at other possibilities meanwhile, I think," said Ash, trying not to sound too depressed about their straitened circumstances.

Mickey was on the phone. "Albert? No dice this end. To prevent any further disasters, I think we should move all our home assets into a safety deposit box. Can you take care of that? Good. We'll see you later, then." He flipped his phone shut and turned to Ash. "Any ideas?"

Ash sighed, looked at the pavement, then back up at Mickey. "Flip you for it," he replied, and lost.

**********

"Brunettes? Sure, come this way." The blonde, permatanned woman's gold bracelets jangled as she led Ash down the flock-papered hall. She pointed into one room. "That's Stacey." Ash smiled and shook his head. They went on a few more paces. "Now this is Charlene…"

"I'm looking for someone a bit younger," said Ash..

The woman beamed. "I've got just the girl for you! This way." She walked briskly to the foot of the stairs and opened the nearest door. "This is Amanda."

Ash grinned from ear to ear. "Perfect."

**********

Mickey was losing patience. "Well?" he demanded, on Ash's eventual return.

Ash thrust a piece of paper into his hand. "Address in Hillingdon," he said. "We got till about six-thirty tonight, then the place'll be occupied." He took out his phone and started on a text message, explaining, "I'll let Albert know where the bloke works so he can keep an eye on him for us. Don't want him coming home early, do we?"

A black cab did a U-turn in the road in front of them in response to Mickey's piercing whistle. The pair got in and the driver made tracks for Hillingdon.

**********

"Good morning, madam. My colleague and I are from Hillingdon Borough Council, and we're in the area today making checks on residents who have applied for planning permission. Your neighbour Mr. Stevenson at number 34 is intending to build a conservatory…"

"What?" exploded the young woman, nearly dropping the toddler she was balancing on her hip. "Wait here…Colin!!" she yelled, turning from the door. Colin appeared hobbling on a crutch, his right leg in plaster. "These men are from the council. Would you believe that moron next door is trying to put a conservatory on the back?"

"Oh, for crying out loud! That's all we need!" Colin looked at Mickey and Ash, resplendent in their hastily "borrowed" high visibility vests and hard hats. "Come through." The couple took the erstwhile surveyors out into the back garden, which was already overshadowed by a fine crop of leylandii from the adjoining property.

"This is what we have to put up with," steamed Colin. "Bloody monstrosities." Mickey started to ask if they'd approached their neighbour about it, but Colin pre-empted with, "No point speaking to him. We tried that. He just laughed and said…well, I won't repeat what he said in front of the kiddy, but let's just say he suggested I use his trees for a very painful purpose." Ash and Mickey both winced.

"Well, he doesn't seem to be home at the moment – presumably he's at work," said Mickey, to which Colin and his wife both nodded. "Is there any way we can get access to his garden?"

"Be my guest," replied Colin with determination in his voice, pulling aside his hedge to show them the best way through. "Anything you can do to stop that bugger from devaluing our property even further is fine by me."

"That's great, Mr….?"

"Fairbank. Colin Fairbank. And this is Debbie."

They all shook hands, and Mickey said, "We don't want to cause you any further problems with Mr. Stevenson, so it'd be best if…"

"Say no more," said Colin understandingly. He shepherded his wife and child back into the house and closed the door. Ash and Mickey stepped straight through the gap in the hedge, made for Stevenson's back door (which was fortunately, if ironically, shielded from the neighbours' gaze by the offending leylandii) and without any trouble whatsoever gained entry to the house.

**********

They were in and out in fifteen minutes. Ash was trying not to look too chuffed with himself after the ease with which he had cracked Stevenson's alarm system as well as his safe. The phrase which sprang to his mind started with "Piece of" and ended with "…iss". Mickey slipped the recovered papers into his official-looking portfolio.

They felt it only right that they stop by and thank the Fairbanks for their co-operation, where they were welcomed with open arms. Forced to decline the offer of a cup of tea (or something stronger), Mickey assured the couple that there was no chance at all of their neighbour receiving council approval for the fictional conservatory, and they were sent on their way rejoicing.

**********

"Mr. Rushworth, delighted to meet you!" Albert greeted his "client" with typical new world charm. "And this is Meneer van Metz, a highly-recommended specialist in Dutch art." After all the introductions had been made, Albert produced a reinforced briefcase and set it on the hotel room table.

"Now what I'm about to show you is for your eyes only – I cannot stress that too highly," he announced in a most serious and confidential voice.

"Ja, ja," agreed van Metz, "zis is a very, er, _sensitive_ item. If other collectors got to know about it – well, ze game should be up, I sink."

"Indeed," said Albert. Having ramped up the suspense sufficiently, he opened the briefcase and displayed a small framed still life to the expectant Mr. Rushworth.

"Quite marvellous!" he exclaimed in a shaky voice. "May I?"

"Of course," replied Albert. The collector picked up the painting reverently and held it at arm's length.

"Beautiful!" He admired it for some time, then said, "And the provenance?"

Albert reached into another briefcase and brought out a document wallet. Rushworth set the painting carefully back in its case, took the wallet from Albert and opened it. Using a jeweller's eyeglass, he examined the certificate of authenticity in great detail. He turned to van Metz and asked, "What do you think of this painting? Is it, to your trained eye, genuine?"

"Oh, without a doubt. I have not seen anything like it for many, many years now. It is a most sought-after piece, I should say." Van Metz adjusted his spectacles and stole a sideways glance at Albert.

At last Rushworth was satisfied. Handing Albert a bulky-looking overnight bag, he said, "I think you'll find everything in order."

Albert pulled back the zip to reveal a large quantity of banknotes. "You won't mind if I check it?" he asked rhetorically, going through each wad of notes in turn. Having done this, he straightened up, smiled, and once again proffered his hand. "A pleasure doing business with you, Mr. Rushworth. I hope I can be of service to you again in the future."

"If you can bring me more items like this, I look forward to it!" Rushworth's eyes shone with the excitement of one who has netted a rare prize. He closed the case containing the artwork, lifted it, and Albert showed him out.

The door closed, Albert and Ash visibly relaxed.

"Whew, that was a bit of an adrenalin rush!" exclaimed the latter, heading for the mini-bar.

"Mine's a double," declared Albert, collapsing into an armchair.

**********

It was six thirty-five. In Clifton Gardens, Hillingdon, the curtain at number 32 twitched slightly as a smartly-dressed man proceeded up the garden path next door. He let himself in and headed for the kitchen with his Indian takeaway. Just as he was about to deposit the bag containing his lamb bhuna on the table, something registered and he stepped backwards into the living room. The curry hit the floor and the man sprinted across to the fireplace.

"NO!" He stood, despairing, before the framed print over the mantelpiece. The likelihood of El Greco's _Lady in a Fur Wrap_ having grown a beard and moustache during the day were slim. With trembling hands, he reached up and swung the portrait on its hinges away from the wall. Breathing heavily, he dialled the combination, opened the safe, and saw a single cigar and a piece of paper.

Uncomprehending, he lifted the note headed "Mr. Richard Stevenson" and read, "We thought it unfair that after all your efforts you should be left with nothing, so – nice try, and here's a cigar." It was signed "The Laughing Cavalier".

**********

Zav Harris glared in contempt at the three hustlers before him. "I thought I made myself pretty clear last time: you're not welcome." He turned his back on them and stood looking out of his office window.

"We thought you'd want to know exactly what happened," Albert said.

"You mean how you stuffed up," corrected Harris, over his shoulder.

Albert coughed, and Ash muttered something uncomplimentary about merchant bankers under his breath. Mickey merely smiled indulgently.

"I don't know what you've got to smirk about," Harris went on, gazing out once more onto the street below. "And I still would prefer it if, by the time I turn round, you were all gone."

"Then we'll just leave you this," replied Mickey, placing a DVD on the solicitor's desk. He nodded to Ash and Albert, and they all left the office without another word.

Intrigued, Harris lifted the disk and regarded it with uncertainty. His curiosity getting the better of him, however, he inserted it into his computer and sat down to watch.

**********

Back at Eddie's, Albert asked, "Exactly what did you put on that disk?"

"Enough to let Zav know that our visit from Richard Stevenson was all down to him," Mickey answered.

"I made a return visit to the knocking shop on Bryden Street and persuaded Amanda to do a little piece to camera," explained Ash. "She was chuffed to bits – turns out she's got ambitions in the acting department. And she makes it quite clear on the DVD that Stevenson paid her to learn whatever she could from Zav about his 'artistic' work for us and other clients. Without him sussing it, obviously…"

"Did he know she was a 'working girl'?" enquired Albert. "Or was he labouring under the misapprehension that a pretty young woman could find someone as unpleasant as him attractive?"

"Ouch, Albert!" grinned Mickey, and added, "The latter. Seems he's always had a bit of a weakness for cradle-snatching."

"That would explain why he specialises in divorce law," commented Ash scathingly.

"Indeed," Albert replied. "And what about Richardson himself?"

"A semi-retired cat burglar," Ash recounted, "now working 9-5 in an insurance office. He heard a whisper about a bent brief doing moody documents for art dealers."

"Ash had a word to the doorman at his workplace," put in Mickey, by way of explanation.

"And a monkey," added the fixer, indignantly. "Anyway, Richardson thought he'd poke around a bit and see if there was anything to this rumour, and followed the trail until it led to Zav. That's when he hit on the idea of using Amanda as a honey trap. He reckoned whatever he had to pay her, he would easily recoup if he could poach from Zav and his customers."

"He didn't do too badly there," said Albert with feeling. "The con came _this_ close to folding. Good catch on the young lady, Ash; if you hadn't found her we'd be half a million down by now."

"Even worse, Richardson would be half a million up," countered Mickey.

"It's a wonder we managed it at all," said Albert. "The chances of coming across such a convincing copy of a saleable old master were virtually zero – and in a Pimlico junk shop, of all places."

They paid up, for once, and started to wend their way home on foot, chatting, laughing and reminiscing as they did so. Ash suddenly stopped in front of a newsagent's and stared at the Evening Standard placard propped up beside the shop door.

"You forget something, Ash?" asked Albert, several yards ahead by now. When he got no response, he and Mickey retraced their steps and read the headline: "Rare Dutch painting vanishes from Buckingham Palace". Ash went in, bought a copy of the newspaper and opened it at the relevant page. The three of them looked at the photograph of the painting, then at each other.

"Well, I'll be…," said Ash finally.

"…a 'Dutch uncle'?" quipped Albert.

"I think," said Mickey firmly, "that it's time for a well-earned holiday on the proceeds of our latest work. Somewhere warm, quiet, and out of the way. And preferably where there isn't any TV or newspapers. We _definitely_ need to get away from it all…"


End file.
